Tell Me A Story
by Pharoah'sCat
Summary: Watching "Journal of Death" I got to wondering where John Cannon got those impressive and crucial metal working skills. That's what kicked off this story, anyway. After that... (As ever...not my characters, just borrowing them from the show's creators and owners. No copyright infringement intended.)


_Author's note: Its funny about stories. Sometimes they start off pretty straight forward and then wander off in all sorts of surprising, and in this case, hopefully amusing, directions._

* * *

It had been 10 days since the operation that had saved Victoria's life. And since a cattle ranch waits for no one, on the surface, things at the High Chaparral had returned to almost normal.

Victoria had been up and around as of late, though in no condition to take on her usual chores. She was often still in pain; even severe pain at times. Doc Plant had been by just the other day to check on her and said that the incision was healing fine and that most of the the pain was from the broken ribs. "Busted ribs just take their own sweet time healing. And there is not much to be done about it. Pain will ease gradual. Probably be another 4…maybe even 5 weeks," he had warned her. The pain left her distinctly limited in her activities. Mostly she had to be satisfied in handing down long lists of instructions to Pedro and Rosa and anyone else who came within her range.

As for John, he was recovering as well. When Victoria had been injured; when she had lain near death, John had forced his fear…his terror… of loosing her to one side; keeping it in a manageable box by focusing moment to moment on wresting Dr. Kendel from Garnet, the work of making the surgical instruments, and even supporting a clearly insecure Kendel; managing all the moving parts to get Victoria the treatment she needed. His relief at the success of the operation was profound, but all of that focus and intensity; all of the energy it took to keep fear at bay had taken its toll - even on him. He wouldn't admit it to anyone but he needed a chance to recover almost as much as Victoria did. So with his own particular combination of reluctance and gruff gratitude, he let Buck, Mano, and even Blue, shoulder more of the ranch responsibilities in the days after the surgery.

Now, John and Victoria were preparing for bed and John winced to see her wince as she gingerly lay down.

"Are you sure you don't want some of the laudanum Doc Plant left?"

"No," she said firmly, but with another wince. "It takes away the pain, but it makes me feel…outside myself. I don't like that. And the pain does get less…each day…if only a little."

John wondered if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. But, he didn't blame her for feeling about laudanum the way she did. His one experience with the powerful drug … in the war… had left him with much the same experience. The pain from his injury… in this case chunks of rock removed from his thigh…sent there via a canon ball exploding near him…was indeed eased. But he too, as Victoria put it, 'felt outside' himself. And he didn't like it either. Still, he hated to see her in pain… any pain.

He lay down as carefully as he could next to her.

She sighed. "The bad thing is, the pain keeps me awake sometimes. Even though I am tired and even though I need to sleep, the pain won't let me."

He was about to suggest the laudanum again… it certainly made you sleepy…but she continued before he could say anything. "What I need is a distraction."

She turned her head and looked at him with such an astonishing combination of boldness and innocence that he could only stare at her, open mouthed.

When he finally recovered, he could only sputter, "I don't think THAT kind of _distraction_ would help you ribs at ALL."

"Well, it wasn't my ribs I was thinking of," she replied with a small smile.

Which made John look even more shocked, which in turn made Victoria laugh, which in its turn made her wince again. "Ow!"

"Serves you right," John said, hiding a laugh of his own behind a stern countenance.

"Well, all right…but I still need a distraction. Of some sort. Tell me something. Tell me a story. A true story."

"A story? About what?" A baffled John inquired.

"Oh, I don't know. Tell me a story from your childhood. I know almost nothing about when your were a boy."

"I know!" She turned slightly to face him, earning but ignoring another stab of pain. "Tell me about how you learned to be such a skilled …_herrero. _I saw the instruments you made for the doctor. That is more than shoeing horses. A lot more."

He rose up on an elbow to look at her. "But it's really not that interesting a story," he protested. "And," he added, a little helplessly, "I told you when we first married that I am not much of a conversationalist."

"I'm not asking for a conversation…just a story. About you. And," she said smiling at him. "If it is dull it will put me to sleep and if it is not dull, I will enjoy hearing it."

"You are impossible!"

"Besides, I just like to hear your voice. It is nice and….rumbly…soothing. When you are not yelling."

"ME yelling! I think there is something about pots calling kettles black," he pointed out.

"I don't know this expression," Victoria said airily.

Defeated, John laid back down with a sigh. "All right" he said.

"Let's see...When I was about 11 … maybe 12…my father decided that I needed to earn some money. Help support the family. So he arranged for me to … well, it wasn't a formal apprenticeship…just work at the blacksmith shop in town. The shop was right near the school where Buck and I went."

"And what did your mother say about this?" It was true that Victoria knew almost nothing about John and Buck's childhoods, but she had heard just enough to have an image in her mind of their mother; tall and straight backed, with John's eyes and stern manner, that, as in her older son, masked a soft heart. For some reason, she always saw his father as being more like Buck; easy going and with a ready laugh; perhaps with a similar wild side.

"She was against it." John said, with what Victoria thought was a certain amount of pride … or perhaps gratitude… in his voice. "She wanted me to stay in school."

"And you, what did you want?"

John gave a small chuckle. "Well, I was greedy. I wanted both. I liked school… and I was good at learning. Especially numbers." He said this with no trace of arrogance…just as simple fact. "But I also liked the idea of doing something to help…and something that was on my own."

"Yes," Victoria said, "that sounds like you."

"Well, maybe, but the truth is, at 11 years old it wasn't my decision to make either way. Ma and Pa batted the thing around for a couple of days…"

"Did they fight much?" inquired Victoria, trying to use this wedge to find out more about her husband's boyhood.

There was a surprisingly long pause before John continued. "No they didn't fight very often at all," he said carefully. Hurrying on he said, "And this was more of a discussion…a negotiation even…than a fight. Finally they came to an agreement. I would stay in school and just work for the smith after school and on Saturdays. And we would buy extra candles for me to be able to study later at night. And a certain percentage of whatever I earned would be put aside for me to have when I came of age."

"So you did get what you wanted!"

"Well," he said with a laugh…"I guess so, but I don't think I got it because I wanted it…I think I got it because they did."

"Still," said Victoria, a little smugly, "you have a way of getting what you want most times."

This time John just looked at her.

"Oh, I know." she said with a wave of her hand, "pots and kettles…._si, si_. Keeping going …please."

John started to, but then interrupted himself "You know…I hadn't ever thought about it before…but that money…and believe me it was a tiny percentage of a tiny salary…was the seed money for High Chaparral in a way. Since those first earnings, I always tried to put money aside for the future."

But Victoria wouldn't let him stray from the story. "What was the blacksmith's name?"

"Hewitt," he paused again. "I don't think I ever knew his first name..he was just Mr. Hewitt to me. Anyway at first I didn't do much beside fetch and carry. Hold the horses being shod. Keep the forge fed…keep the cooling tubs cool…that sort of thing."

"And then," Victoria kept nudging him on.

"So then, he started training me to do other things. But, I was so small…"

"You were NEVER small! "Victoria interrupted, slightly shocked at the image of a small Big John Cannon.

"I sure was! Well, I was always pretty tall, but so skinny Pa used to say I could slip through a crack in the wall. And hard as I tried I just couldn't wield the big hammer, the big tools …with any accuracy. So he set me to doing the smaller work…and after a while the more precise work. Or doing some of the finish work on his projects. Door knockers, hasps, window latches. Decorations and things."

"Artistic things."

John looked astonished at the thought. "No…I don't have an artistic bone in my body. You know that. And that's not art."

"Of course it is." Victoria corrected. "You just don't…or won't …see it. But go on."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Well, whatever it was, I got pretty good at it. I never had to make surgical instruments but there were other things …small tools…that were kind of the same. And I guess you just don't forget those skills…not if you really need them. And as I got older and stronger he taught me how to do the other, heavy stuff. I think I worked for him on and off for 4/5 years or so."

"See?" He said, turning to her again. "Pretty dull."

Suddenly he laughed. And then laughed again.

"What!?" She demanded.

"Well, I just remembered something."

"About working for Mr Hewitt?"

"Well, no, not directly. But it happened during the time I was working for him." He folded an arm behind his head. "One winter night…it was bitter cold outside; snow blowing and the wind hard out of the north. It was so cold, Pa even let the dog sleep inside and believe me that was rare."

"Anyway, I was staying up late doing my school work by candle light. Ma and Pa were upstairs in the sleeping loft and Buck was tucked under the staircase…we shared a mattress there. And I had this quilt wrapped around me trying to keep warm. Well, I must have dozed off and the next thing I knew I jerked awake with the candle knocked over and a corner of the quilt AND a lock of my hair on fire."

Victoria gasped.

"So, I jumped up and was trying to bat out the fire with the other end of the quilt. Tried to put out my hair by hitting myself in the head with my school book…arithmetic, I think." he said with a laugh.

"And Buck woke up from all the commotion and he was trying to help so he grabbed a pot off the stove and threw an entire kettleful of cold beef broth all over me!"

Victoria stifled a laugh…both for the sake of her ribs and her husband's pride."Oh, you must have been so angry at him! But at least he put the fire out."

"Well, one of us did..…and…well, I probably would have been mad except that he took a step and slipped on some of the spilled broth and landed on his backside. And as he went down, he grabbed the side of the counter to try and keep from falling and he pulled an entire basket of fresh eggs down on himself."

"Oh, no!" Victoria couldn't help laughing this time, ribs or no.

"And then…President George Washington got into the act."

"WHAT!?"

"Well, see," John explained with a huge smile, "Pa was a great admirer of our first president so he named the dog President George Washington. 'Course, we just called him Wash. And Wash couldn't decide if Buck, covered in raw eggs, or me covered in beef broth, was more interesting. So he kept dashing back and forth between us and every time Buck would try and get up, Wash would knock him flat again."

John was really laughing now, as was Victoria.

"And so I'm trying to help Buck up, and we are both laughing, and Wash is jumping up on me and barking like crazy, so of course our parents came down to see what all the ruckus was. And when they came down, one of them must have accidentally kicked this goose down pillow down the stairs. And Wash is in a frenzy at this point…what with the broth and eggs and general level of excitement….and he tore into that pillow like it was a possum fallen out a tree. And so when Pa finally got him collared and opened the door to push Wash out, the wind came in and next thing you knew there were feathers everywhere. It looked like it was snowing inside."

"Ow, ow…" Victoria was peppering he laughter with reactions to the pain in her ribs.

"I'm sorry!" said John. "I didn't mean to make you laugh so hard. I should have stopped at the dull part."

Victoria shook her head, her laughter slowly easing into giggles. "No! I wouldn't have missed it for the world! Or a dozen broken ribs! It is a wonderful story. What did your parents say?!"

"You know, I'm sure Buck and I thought we were in for a whuppin' but I think they were just so stunned by everything…the spills, the burnt quilt, the feathers still floating around, that they…. we all… just kinda stood there. Finally, all at once… we burst out laughing. Even Pa. Eventually, when we stopped, Ma handed Buck and me brooms and dust pans and cleaning rags and we cleaned up as best we could. We tried not to laugh more but it wasn't easy. Still, I don't think we got punished at all."

"Oh, I'm glad," Victoria said. She sighed contentedly, (if not deeply.)and then yawned.

"You know," John said, "now you owe me one."

"One what?"

"A story. About your childhood."

"Oh, alright. Sometime…but not tonight," she said drowsily. She moved slightly to a more comfortable position, and then said with a smile, "But I'm afraid I do not have any stories featuring Presidents."

John watched as she drifted off to sleep, the smile still on her face…her beautiful face.

* * *

_Afterward:_

A few days after that, when John was fully back in the day to day operations of the ranch, he took a detour to the forge. This time, instead of conjuring up a surgeon's tool box, he worked on a door handle. The handle itself, where the thumb rested, was shaped like a heart. And on the escutcheon…the plate that held the handle on…there was beautifully wrought filigree, with the initials 'J' 'V' and 'C' entwined. Victoria was thrilled with the addition. "I told you it was art." She said, but John just shook his head. Still, over the coming months and years more and more beautifully wrought pieces began to appear in High Chaparral. A new front door knocker which somehow managed to suggest the chaparral plant inclosed in a large C; new cleverly worked fittings for the windows; elegant, but still practical hooks for the kitchen pots and pans. Even the barn and bunkhouse found themselves sporting remarkable samples of the craft of iron working. When it was up and running, Buck and Mano received a new, intricately designed and unmistakable branding iron for the CBarM. But if anyone ever complimented John on the work…or heaven forbid referred to it as art… John would just brush it aside. "Just what I do when I should be doing something more important," he would say. And Victoria would just smile.


End file.
